The Phanseys of William Cavendish Marquis of Newcastle addressed to Margaret Lucas and her Letters in reply: Edited by Douglas Grant |
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| 68. | 68 Love's Murmering Brooke |
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 | The Phanseys of William Cavendish Marquis of Newcastle |  |
87
68
Love's Murmering Brooke
When Tytan's hotter Eyes
Men's fortunes most Espyes,
Walking the world about
To finde men's Actions out,
I'l hide myne from his sight,
Though myne dare bide his light.
Pearst by his subtil'st beames,
Man's fortune, Waken'd dreames;
And not asham'd to tell,
Though ruin'd, how I fell;
But loath that hee should Eye it;
For Princes' sakes, not spie it.
Men's fortunes most Espyes,
Walking the world about
To finde men's Actions out,
I'l hide myne from his sight,
Though myne dare bide his light.
Pearst by his subtil'st beames,
Man's fortune, Waken'd dreames;
And not asham'd to tell,
Though ruin'd, how I fell;
But loath that hee should Eye it;
For Princes' sakes, not spie it.
A Sollitary Groave,
No further wee will roave;
Hung all with darke, no sight,
Shutt out what's Joy and light.
In sadder shade wee'le bee
Under a Mornefull tree;
Sitt on the Grasse, though die
And withers where we lie;
A Murmring brooke not stay
But flies, and runnes away
Fearinge my fate; Nott knows,
Yett weepes still as it goes.
No further wee will roave;
Hung all with darke, no sight,
Shutt out what's Joy and light.
In sadder shade wee'le bee
Under a Mornefull tree;
Sitt on the Grasse, though die
And withers where we lie;
A Murmring brooke not stay
But flies, and runnes away
Fearinge my fate; Nott knows,
Yett weepes still as it goes.
Siths tellinge make harts Ake
Of Stouter Oakes; leaves quake,
And trembling thus for feare,
When my sad story heare,
Though Springe, they almost deafe;
Greefe makes it faule o'th' leafe.
Siths then Condenst to dewe,
Weeping salt dropps, renewe
Their woes and greefs to bee
Morners for you and mee.
In our sad Armes wee lye;
They, Claspinge roots, all die.
Of Stouter Oakes; leaves quake,
And trembling thus for feare,
88
Though Springe, they almost deafe;
Greefe makes it faule o'th' leafe.
Siths then Condenst to dewe,
Weeping salt dropps, renewe
Their woes and greefs to bee
Morners for you and mee.
In our sad Armes wee lye;
They, Claspinge roots, all die.
| The Phanseys of William Cavendish Marquis of Newcastle | |